


Sometimes The Choice Is Made For Us

by JoansGlove



Series: Hierarchy-Slow Dance Crossover [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: Joan and Vera find the fickle finger of fate pointing in their direction once moreThe follow-up to Sometimes We Have No Choice





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, with thanks to Duchess. Mate, you made me work for it, but it's a better fic because of you xx

Joan's smouldering gaze called her back to warmth of their bed and she wasted no time in burrowing under the covers to slide against the solid heat of her lover. Her hand roamed over Joan's chest, fingertips lingering on hard nipples as liquid heat bloomed between her thighs. She covered Joan with her body and straddled her hip, grinding into her as the sparking tenseness coursing through her made her shudder and burn. There were no rules - not here, not now - and she took what she needed from the woman beneath her; she devoured her nakedness, her vulnerability as she closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure; she filled her mouth with Joan's flesh, filled Joan's mouth with her tongue, she invaded the scalding recess of her cunt and pushed her shining fingers down Joan's throat – everything was hot and wet and urgent as she took her fill.

 

She felt herself pulled into the bottomless depths of Joan's eyes as their bodies undulated on the tide of desire. Strong hands dragged their way across her buttocks as her clit slid over Joan's slippery hip, working their way up her back, short nails scoring trails in her flesh; and then she was wrapped in Joan’s long arms, crushed against her heaving ribs, the deep ache low down in her belly growling and writhing like a wild animal, tugging at her cunt, making her thighs quiver as a cascade of sweet explosions forced their way through her. She felt so connected to Joan that they were almost one seamless being as she buried her face between Joan's soft breasts and ground into her hip with abandon until she was taken by a bliss so deep and consuming that she disintegrated, every molecule in her body uncoupling and spreading out into the universe to throb and burn and shine forever… 

She woke mid-orgasm, hearing her own thick moans as her helpless spasms pinned her leaking cunt to the mattress and she jerked and bucked in the throes of her wet dream.

 

Vera lay disoriented and twitching as heavy sweat cooled on her forehead. How the fuck had that happened? The last thing on her mind at the moment was sex – and that went double for sex with _Joan!_ The bedside clock read 03:15. She’d never get back to sleep now, and with a shiver she threw back the covers and slipped her feet into her fleecy slippers, struggling into her robe as she headed for the bathroom.

 

What do you with yourself in these limbo hours? A spot of light housework? Catch up on the household admin? Maybe finish that worthy novel you started way back when…? Fuck that! Vera felt way too sketchy to do much more than wander aimlessly through the silent rooms and stare morosely out into the still garden.

 

The disconcerting feeling of arousal haunted Vera like a malevolent spectre. Its insidious hold pinched her in awful ways, making her hate Joan all the more and, as she moved about the house, her imagination sprouted unlikely scenarios of her arguing with the vile woman and actually winning - it had been doing this ever since Joan had dumped her but recent events had ramped up the intensity. If she didn’t catch herself in time, these little victories spawned fantasies of her hitting Joan (which quickly and seamlessly degenerated into a savage orgy of violent kicks and punches that landed with shocking force) and leaving her a cowering wreck as she finally realised just what a bitch she was… These brutal thoughts were horrible yet all-consuming and they left Vera tense and shaking with rage-fuelled adrenaline and wishing that she could physically make Joan feel even a fraction of that pain and humiliation.

But she had craved Joan. She had hungered for her approval, her touch, a kiss, a smile.  She had ached abominably for the rare times that she had been allowed to touch the sacred flesh of her lover, her mentor… her world.

 

Finding herself in the kitchen she absentmindedly made some tea then opened the patio door and stepped outside to stand, shivering, in the thin drizzle, hands wrapped around the oversized mug as she held it over her heart. Her breath plumed white in the early spring air but she needed the cold to clear her head. She’d replayed Joan's visit over and over, kicking herself for the stupid admissions she’d made, seething at the cruel things Joan said, crying slow, heavy tears at how Joan had revealed Jake's infidelities to her…She’d watched the awful internal footage so many times that she felt numb with angry self-pity, and totally adrift.

 

Vera's jaw tightened and she found herself visualising a bleeding and cowed Joan submitting to her dominant sexual advances. Unconsciously her lips twisted in a vicious leer at the thought of Joan averting her eyes as she grabbed her by the neck and ripped open her silk blouse with a sneer. Her heart beat faster as she envisioned running her hands over Joan's hot skin, feeling the soft resilience of her heavy breasts, hearing Joan gasp as she dug her nails into her skin and clawed them down her belly and then rammed her stiff fingers between her legs. And in this sordid daydream, she made the cold bitch cry out with need, made her beg with fear, beg for Vera to stop, plead for her to never stop.

She forced Joan onto all fours and fucked her mercilessly, the heavy cock that had materialised between her legs stretching Joan painfully wide as she grabbed chunks of tousled black hair and yanked Joan's head back until she screamed for mercy, and as she violated her and she broke through Joan's mask Vera heard her whimper and sob out apologies for everything she had ever done to her, confess her guilt to anything that Vera could think of, promise to do anything, everything she could to make it right between them. Disgusted by her slobbering, Vera threw Joan to the ground and ….

 

… Jesus Christ, Vera! she screamed silently at this unknown version of herself, you're fantasising about rape! What’s the matter with you??? She knew that there was something badly wrong with her if she could imagine doing that to Joan. OK, she reasoned, the thoughts of violence and revenge were understandable - they were raw and base and they were human - but rape? She wasn’t that person. But - didn’t she deserve an apology from Joan?

The abhorrence at this hitherto unseen side of her made her feel sick. She felt dirty and clammy, her pulse thudded hard and heavy in the back of her skull and she knew that she was going to throw up.

 

Drool dangled from Vera’s slack lips as she retched into the toilet bowl. She was so miserable it hurt. The heaving of her guts did nothing to shift the heavy mass of wretched sorrow and hate that pressed against her ribs. Over the months it had increasingly pushed against her heart, pulsing sickly in time with the battered muscle; Jake had made it shrink and retreat – like some kind of radiation therapy – but now that he was gone it was back with a vengeance and it compressed her lungs and brought her shortness of breath as it marked out more territory; and it wrapped itself around her stomach, killing what little appetite she had and made the shrivelled sac complain sharply when she tried to anaesthetise herself with wine – and god knew, that had been (and still was) too often for comfort.

 

The cold sweat of her nausea was already drying on her skin, layering over the sweat of her dream, and she felt as if she were being encased in a stifling shell of guilt. She needed a shower. Dismissing the soft scents of her usual body wash and shampoo she reached for the squeezy black bottle lurking in the corner of the enclosure – it was Jake's and something she’d been meaning to throw out after he’d left. No – he hadn’t left had he? She’d told him to leave. Joan had ruined her life with Jake and for what? The sharpness of citrus and eucalyptus began to rouse her senses and Vera realised that she missed him - despite all he’d done, she was missing his presence and his affection. Scrubbing herself raw in the scalding cascade, her salt tears were washed away but she couldn’t rid herself of the burning shame of being deceived yet again.

A febrile faintness gripped her and she began to tremble as she grew hotter and hotter until she thought that she was going to pass out. With an effort, Vera pushed the lever upwards and was deluged in a blast of icy needles that had her twisting in shock and physical pain as they leached out all warmth from her tortured body. She forced her shoulders back and embraced the numbing spray, gritting her teeth to stop them from chattering as she pushed her endurance to the limit. When she could no longer feel the sting on her deadened skin, or her fingers and toes, Vera stepped out and hugged a bath towel around herself. Her body sang as blood raced through her narrowed capillaries but her mind was just as leaden as before. 

 

With heavy footsteps, she returned to her bedroom. Vera dropped the towel and sat down at her vanity, reaching tiredly for her hairbrush; what she glimpsed in the mirror made her freeze in shock. The woman reflected back at her looked ill – deathly so. She was bone thin, haggard despite her glowing pink skin, withered. ‘Old and hard before your time’ – her mother had accused her of being that, had made it sound like it was all Vera's fault when, in fact, she’d never been allowed to be young. Her mother had disapproved of any display of youthful frivolity and it sometimes felt to Vera as if she’d been 65 for most of her life.

Listlessly, she dragged the brush through her hair and blasted it with the dryer then crossed to the wardrobe. Comfy sweats were what she was after but her eye was caught by a slash of red that cut through her fog and she realised that the only way to start feeling better was to pull herself up by the bootstraps and at least look like a human being again instead of an amorphous grey lump.

 

She didn’t give herself time to talk herself out of it and, laying the red wrap-around blouse out on the bed she rummaged in the dresser for her best underwear and slipped the finely embroidered silk over and around her narrow body. Shrugging the blouse over her shoulders, Vera seemed to draw a kind of power from the vibrant hue and she fancied that her mood lifted as she adjusted its fit. The good feeling grew as she wriggled into her tight jeans and admired how the heavy tarnished silver coloured denim accentuated her high, tight backside. She finished the outfit with her heeled biker boots and swaggered over to the vanity where she hid her pallor with a quick lick of make-up and fluffed out her hair – there, she thought, almost human again…

 

When she entered the kitchen to make some more tea the room was filled with the fresh scent of night and she realised that the patio door was still wide open. The drizzle had stopped but the air was still damp with heavy dew as Vera wandered out onto the paving and lifted her face to the cloud-wreathed stars. She let her mid go blank as she communed with the cosmos and she felt the gentle weight of gravity pushing the ache from her body. It was still cold though, and it didn’t take long to feel the chill and retreat inside.

As the kettle boiled, her eyes settled on her rota pinned to the corkboard and she made her decision: she was going to sever all personal ties with Joan – when she finally returned to Wentworth, she’d find a professionally neutral Vera. There’d be no loose threads for her to pick at, no cracks for her to widen; and when the transfer finally came through then Vera would be free of her clutches forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Why she hadn’t chucked everything associated with Joan when she’d moved house she couldn’t say. She’d disposed of the cream silk knickers that she’d stolen from her, but that had been more to do with the possibility of Jake finding them and asking awkward questions than hating their existence. But now it was time to get rid of everything that linked the two of them. Grabbing a garbage bag from the utility, Vera headed for the bedroom.

 

Opening the wardrobe, she dragged the blue dress off its hanger and, with a grimace, she shoved it into the sack; she didn’t want to remember the night she’d worn it for Joan.  The same went for the shoes and she closed her mind to the memory of Joan fitting them to her feet, and later that night, unbuckling them. She used the spindly chair from her dressing table to reach the overhead cupboards and slid her hand beneath the folded summer blankets until her questing fingers encountered the long, shallow box that held the leather opera gloves. Vera eased it out and jumped down, feeling the contents shift inside the stiff, glossy shell as she wobbled dangerously on her heels.

She bent the cardboard box in half, stamping her foot against the lacquered surface to make it fold and stamping on it even harder to flatten it down, then rammed it into the garbage sack. A sharp shoe heel pierced the flimsy plastic as she knotted the neck but she couldn’t be bothered to try and push it back inside. She briefly considered untying the knot and adding all the underwear she’d bought with Joan – for Joan – but decided against it, after all, she’d paid a lot for that collection of lace and satin – it seemed churlish to deny herself just to labour a point.

 

She made good time to Joan's place, but then again, other than joggers and cyclists, who in their right mind would be up and about at 6:35 on a Sunday morning?

Adrenaline surged in her veins making her breathless and giddy as she strode up to Joan's front door. She knew that she would never willingly knock on it ever again and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she dropped the plastic sack with its expensive contents onto the doormat.

She was shaking as she turned and stalked away.

 

Joan glanced up from her newspaper as a small shadow darkened the frosted windows. The anticipated knock failed to appear and driven by curiosity she rose from the sofa and crossed the short distance to the front door, peeking through the spyhole in time to see Vera square her shoulders and head towards the street. A sudden impulse made Joan yank the door open and step out after her.

“Vera?” she called softly - no response. Joan hardened her tone, “Vera!” she demanded, “what’s this?” Joan grabbed the bag and held it out between them.

Vera paused. She fought every instinct in her body not to turn around and her small fists clenched at her sides. “Open it and find out!” she retorted and started walking again.

“Vera… Wait!” a pleading tone entered Joan's voice, “please…” She saw Vera falter and tried again, “Vera, can we talk? I think we need to, don’t you?”

 

Vera's chin dropped to her chest and she steeled herself for what was to come. This could be the worst mistake of her life, she thought - to entertain Joan's request. At best it would probably end up in another slanging match, at the worst it would come to physical blows, she was sure of it; there were still things that she wanted to know, things she wanted to say that Joan definitely would not want to acknowledge… She turned on her heel and stared coldly at Joan. “Do we?”

 

Slow, deliberate steps carried her towards Joan and she took the opportunity to sweep her haughty gaze over the all too familiar figure. She was in her pyjamas and Vera was suddenly struck by the galling thought that they had never made it to the lazy Sunday morning stage, that she’d only ever seen Joan dressed like this when she was on Remand. Thick brushed cotton, its deep, midnight blue shot through with a tartan of sky and ice shrouded the long legs that emerged from the folds of her heavy robe of gunpowder grey silk. The robe itself hung open and revealed Joan's firm stomach and cleavage; her camisole looked to be made from a thin silk jersey and it clung to her like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Vera felt a panicky flush of attraction prickle at the back of her neck and took a deep breath to steady herself.

 

“Do we really have anything left to say to each other, Joan?” Halting in front of her, Vera hardened her heart to Joan's handsome beauty, to how her sleek, silvering mane framed her long face, accentuating her square jaw and plush mouth, and how it drew attention to her long, soft neck. She cocked her hip and crossed her arms as she eyed Joan with as much disdain as she could muster.

“You know that we do,” replied Joan smoothly, “otherwise you’d have carried on walking.” She stood aside and gestured for Vera to enter. After a moment’s deliberation, Vera scowled at her welcoming smile and crossed the threshold. Like walking into the lion’s den, she thought to herself as she heard Joan lock the door behind her.

 

Vera had obviously been taking fashion tips from Westfall, observed Joan as she brushed past her, she was wearing the same ‘It Girl’ combination of heeled boots, tight jeans and a ‘power’ shirt – all she needed now was the confidence to go with it she mused spitefully. Yet she had to admit that she preferred this look to Vera's usual penchant for pastels, florals and frills…

As she took Vera's jacket she was struck by how her red shirt flamed like a beacon against the sedate palette of her pristine home. She clamped down on the wistfully poetic thought that, like her shirt, Vera had glowed red-hot against the ordered background of her life; she still did - but now her spark was diminished as it crawled fitfully beneath layers of ash.

 

“Would you like some coffee, Vera, perhaps some breakfast? I was planning on making some for myself …” Vera's stomach growled at the mention of food and she nodded curtly. She followed Joan into the kitchen and hovered at the end of the island as Joan quickly prepared a fresh pot of coffee and as it brewed, snipped off the knot at the neck of the plastic bag and pulled out the contents, laying each item side by side on the counter in front of Vera.

“Hmm,” she eyed the haul impassively before her gaze flicked to Vera. “You know, you could have just disposed of these in a recycling bin if you didn’t want them any longer,” she commented archly, “why bring them all the way over here?” – As if she didn’t already know what Vera was up to…

With a cool stare, Vera said, “I thought that you could repurpose them, after all, they cost a lot of money.”

“I see.” Joan interrogated Vera's defiant expression and she asked sweetly, “do you begrudge the poor a little haute couture, Vera? That’s not very charitable of you now, is it? But, of course, leaving them on my doorstep means that I can’t fail to receive your message, doesn’t it?” She smiled innocently as Vera's soft mouth tightened.

“If you haven’t got the message by now, Joan, then this little lot isn’t going to help any.”

“Hm,” Joan replaced up the unwanted outfit in the garbage sack and pushed it towards Vera, “well, they’re no good to me, do with them what you will.” She turned abruptly and began to ready crockery and silverware. “Sit down, Vera,” Joan absently waved an elegant hand towards the dining table, “take the weight off…”

 

As Joan as moved about the kitchen, she couldn’t help but stare and remember the first night she’d spent in this house: Joan had seduced her then beaten her over an infringement of her rules – Vera knew that she should have cut and run right then but she’d been powerless under Joan's intoxicating influence. Well, things were different now...

The infuriating woman had looped the belt of her robe around the wings and tied it in the small of her back to keep them out of harm’s way, and Vera felt almost harried by the sight of Joan flaunting herself so shamelessly. The way that her breasts bobbed as she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, the way they jiggled as she prepared strawberries and slices of deep orange melon sent more sickly prickles of heat crawling over her scalp and Vera kept taking deep breaths to dislodge the ones that had stuck in her throat, letting them out slowly as she reminded herself that Joan was playing with her – yet she found it hard not to watch...

 

Tearing her eyes away, she forced herself to inspect her surroundings. The sideboard behind her was strangely bare - no fencing mask, no photograph of Joan and no stone egg. She idly wondered what had happened to them and quickly scanned the rest of the surfaces, spotting the egg in the lounge but seeing no trace of the other items. Gone too were two of the woven wire dining chairs, she realised vaguely. Vera fingered the heavy white cloth that covered the table, it was out of keeping with the rest of Joan's minimalist décor. Had that boy, Shayne, done something to the house? Her speculation was cut short as Joan appeared silently at her side and began to set the table.

 

Being so close to Joan like this was unsettling; in spite of all the pain and uncertainty the unspeakably difficult woman had caused her, a part of Vera still wanted to fuck her brains out – and she hated herself for being so weak. “Rather unnecessary, isn’t it?” she commented sourly and nodded towards Joan's chest.

“What’s it to you?” she asked as she poured the coffee, “they’re just tits, Vera, everyone’s got them.” Joan added just the right amount of milk and pushed the cup and saucer towards Vera.

“But not everyone flashes them at breakfast...” she snapped judgementally, narrowed eyes flickering over the offending flesh.

“Ha! You're immune to my charms so why should you care? Besides, considering what you exposed to me the other day, you're hardly in a position to criticise…” Joan looked pointedly at Vera's crotch and the expression on her handsome face said ‘isn’t that right?’ With a knowing smile, she spun on her toes and left Vera to her bitter coffee and even bitterer thoughts.

 

As she waited for the large slices of artisan bread to brown under the grill, Joan considered her game plan. She was torn between two eventualities: on one hand, she was inclined to simply deny Vera’s existence, to lock this nasty episode away and move on. But on the other hand (- and this was new and unexplored territory for Joan) she’d repeatedly found herself wondering if they couldn’t salvage something. She’d misjudged Vera and felt that in some way, she should apologise for at least part of what she had done, but she had needed Vera to feel some of her pain – it was only human after all… If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with exacting Jackson’s punishment, she would have seen that Vera had responded in the only way she knew how in the face of her neglect. – But how their relationship would look if they actually succeeded in finding common ground was anybody’s guess…

 

Whichever path this morning took, Joan intended to conclude their business with the minimum of fuss. Research suggested that, during the decision-making process, sad feelings prompted reason in the logic centres of the brain (and god knew that she’d had enough of battling Vera's emotional responses), and Vera had once told her that the smell of Vegemite held painful memories for her. Joan allowed herself a sly, congratulatory grin at her own cunning as she placed the brown pot with its yellow lid alongside the jar of imported cherry conserve and the slices of crisp toast already waiting on the tray. 


	3. Chapter 3

Gathering her robe around her, Joan belted it loosely before sliding into the seat across from Vera. “So, Vera, I was wondering if perhaps you’d reconsidered my proposal?” She plucked a slice of toast from the rack and scraped it with a little butter, taking a second, clean knife to gouge a dollop of viscous brown goo from the small cylindrical pot, looping the trailing filaments around the blade before snapping them with a sharp flick of her wrist and smearing it across the surface of her buttered toast.

A shroud of melancholia settled over Vera as the rich, savoury aroma of the Vegemite tainted the air, and she looked across at Joan with a sigh of resignation. Her plan of ignoring Joan was an impossible dream, she could see that now. The civilised thing to do would be to agree to Joan's offer of a truce. It wasn’t an ideal situation but she didn’t want to live like this any longer. She knew that, Joan being Joan, the two of them may never resolve their issues and she was just too tired of it all to keep on fighting her corner indefinitely – it was easier all around to give in.

 

‘The art of negotiation is to begin with the things you agree on. I think we start with something close to this woman's heart.’ Those were Joan's exact words when faced with Smith’s rebellion. But could she find anything close enough to Joan's heart to work with? She knew that the key issues here were trust, pride and security and, other than spilling the beans about her and Joan's relationship, she had nothing to bargain with. Vera blinked deliberately and pushed her toast about on the plate, “I don’t really have much choice but to accept it, do I?” she asked, looking squarely at Joan. “You’ll go on ruining my life until you get what you want, so I may as well.” At least Joan had the good grace to look a little embarrassed, she even broke the stare and her gaze slid away over the breakfast things before meeting Vera's once more. 

“I’m sorry that you feel that way, Vera, but I’m pleased that you’re willing to agree to this.”

Reaching for the jam, Vera deliberately ignored the small spoon and used the dirty butter knife to scoop out a clot of fruit, she grinned inwardly as Joan's face tightened, “like I said, I don’t have much choice, do I?”  


The coffee was still hot and Vera poured herself another cup; she tilted the pot towards Joan - who held up her hand in refusal - then set it back on its mat before taking a readying breath. “OK then, before we start we’ve got to get one thing straight: look, if we’re ever going to have a hope of settling anything between us I need to believe that you are telling me the truth, Joan. And believe me, that’s gonna take some doing…” Toast crunched between her teeth and she chewed belligerently as she watched Joan closely.

Setting down her own toast, Joan crossed her forearms and leaned forward, “Vera, are you forgetting who suggested this truce in the first place? Why on earth wouldn’t I be honest with you?” she asked with a bemused smile.

“Umm, let me see, Joan….” Vera swallowed and her lips curled in a cold smile of painful memory, “what do you think could have possibly happened to make me think that you wouldn’t hesitate to lie to me if it suited you?” Joan sniffed and took a bite of her toast, chewing slowly as she waited for Vera to continue. “I want you to swear, Joan, swear on something that really matters to you – I want you to swear on Jianna’s memory.” She knew full well that she was taking a major gamble here and she half-expected Joan pull up her drawbridge and kick her out onto the street.

 

Joan paused mid-chew and stared in genuine wide-eyed surprise before recovering herself. She was between a rock and a hard place, and Vera knew it. She couldn’t renege now but, if she did as Vera asked and she lied (and likely she would have to), then she would further dishonour her special girl, the precious child whom had died because of their forbidden love, whom had died because of her – no, she wasn’t about to seek an easier life at her expense; but if she refused then Vera would walk away, and she and Westfall would plot and conspire until something wholly regrettable happened – this wasn’t a viable option either – after the turbulence of the last year she needed some status quo.

 

“I’ll agree to it on one condition,” she ventured, dropping her toast and wiping her fingers on the thick linen napkin. It irritated her how easily Vera had managed to manoeuvre her into this situation, but then again, she reflected sometimes the simplest moves are the most effective – and Vera had been a quick study when she wanted to be… 

“Oh, yes, and what would that be?” came the spiky response.

“I’ll agree provided I’m not expected to answer questions about my charges – and that includes all those spurious allegations and suspicions you put in my file and your reports to the board.”

Dead air filled the space between them as Vera took another bite and gazed thoughtfully at Joan. How fucking typical of the woman! “So, what you’re saying is that you’ll only tell me what you want me to know,” she said flatly. Joan's eyes widened in protest.

 “No, not at all, Vera! No, I’m merely pointing out that were I guilty of such actions then we wouldn’t be here now, we’d be in your office – or my cell – so I see very little point in defending myself further over imaginary deeds. This is a new start for us, Vera, and I swear to you that I won’t try to trick you.” 

 

“Well, that doesn’t really matter anyway. I’ve thought about what you said and, if we do this, then I agree we should draw a line under everything that’s happened and try to work together the best we can – just as you suggested.” Vera straightened her spine and laid her palms on the table, fixing Joan with a level, unwavering gaze, “but for that to work I expect to be treated fairly, Joan, and with honesty. You’ll allocate me no more than my fair share of grunt jobs or night shifts. You will talk to me civilly at all times. You won’t belittle me in front of the other officers or the Women. No more point scoring. No more manipulation. No more involvement in your plots or your late-night visits with inmates. And in return I’ll afford you the same respect. I won’t discuss you with Bridget or anyone else. I will do my utmost to follow your orders to the letter. I won’t go looking for evidence of wrong-doing. But,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing in warning, “you have to play it straight with me Joan. I told you, if you do anything even remotely underhand, and I learn of it, then I _will_ be going to the Board.” Vera took a deep swallow of her coffee to slake her parched throat and nervously tore her toast into small pieces as she waited for Joan to start laughing.

 

And Joan took her sweet time before responding; eventually, her wide lips began to twitch and her eyes twinkled but she didn’t laugh as predicted. Instead, a beatific smile suffused her features and she said simply, “OK.”

At the very least, Vera had expected some form of resistance and she searched Joan’s face for indications of subterfuge but found only a serene acceptance. “OK? Just like that? No demands of your own?” she asked warily.

“Those terms seem fair. We have a deal. But if you fail to stick to it I’ll have you dismissed in an instant.” Vera nodded in acknowledgement. “Then we’re agreed, no more unpleasantness.”

 

I’ll believe it when I see it thought Vera uncharitably. She didn’t trust Joan – when it came down to it she was as slippery as an eel and totally amoral – and she knew that it would only be a matter of time before Joan reverted to her old ways. But she aimed to be long gone by the time that happened.

 

Joan cleared away the crumb scattered plates. She was pleased that Vera had taken the initiative (it bolstered her self-respect just as she’d hoped it would) and that her demands were neither unexpected nor unreasonable, and Joan found herself walking taller as she carried the fruit over to her guest. She frowned as Vera rose and placed her chair under the table. “You're not leaving already, surely?” Vera gave an insolent shrug that said ‘why not?’ and Joan felt a prick indignation that Vera should want to snub her like this. “At least stay and finish your breakfast… You can bring me up to speed with what’s been happening at work.”

It was the last thing that Vera wanted to do but something in Joan's voice made her waver. “I’m not going to discuss my demotion, Joan,” Vera said warily, “or Jake.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, but could you at least try and drop the hostility?” Vera laughed thinly but resumed her seat.


	4. Chapter 4

The coffee, whilst initially very welcome, was beginning to make her feel jittery and her stomach was feeling distinctly tender, so Vera asked for some tea. It was an easy way of putting some space between she and Joan - but not for long.

 

The rising sun squeezed a solitary golden beam between the gaps in the surrounding buildings and illuminated a thin slice of Joan's tidy garden. Casting long shadows, it forced its way through the body of a kneeling woman wearing a hare’s head mask and seared Vera's retina as it reflected and refracted through the myriad of droplets that clung to the tangle of wire that was her skin. Vera knew how it felt to pierced like that, she could tell you of the burning glory that fills you when you are touched by something so powerful and wondrous. She could also tell you how it felt to be bereft of such light, how cold and empty you feel – just like that statue out there…

 

The shaft of light invaded the house as well and splashed over Joan's hands as she popped the lid of her grandmother’s tea caddy, making the brightly printed tin glow with primary reds and blues as she spooned a measure of leaves into the infuser. “Have you told BriDgeT about my visit?” she asked over her shoulder. She took Vera’s silence as an affirmative, “did she commend you for standing up to me? I bet she warned you that I would try to destroy you – or make you destroy yourself, didn’t she, hmm?” She turned to gauge Vera's reaction. Their eyes locked for a moment before Vera looked away, tell-tale guilt pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, I can see that I’m right.”

 

Carrying the tea over to the table she carefully placed the steaming mug in front of Vera. Her hand remained outstretched as she lowered herself into her chair, eventually coming to rest on the heavy white cloth in front of her; long fingers twitched redundantly as she seemed to struggle with a thought. “I don’t want to destroy you, Vera,” she said quietly and gave a small shake of her head, “no, in spite all the unpleasantness between us, I recognise your courage and I respect it.” Vera nearly choked in surprise. What the fuck was Joan playing at now? She glared at the woman’s earnest face with mistrust but said nothing. “And it did take courage,” Joan continued, “I can appreciate that now; your bravery - whilst misguided – is rather impressive.”

“Oh, really. That’s not the impression I got the other day,” she replied tightly and hooked the silver mesh egg from her mug. She wondered if she could be evil enough the leave a trail of drips across the snowy cloth.

 

“Despite what you may think, Vera, we really aren’t that dissimilar,” Joan reached over and placed a small saucer besides Vera's wavering hand. “From the day your father left you were an emotional orphan. That was the same for me – my mother left when I was eight and, from then on, I may as well have been on my own. Neither of our remaining parents nurtured us. They made us grow up differently to other people. I know your pain.” She offered a faint smile of supportive camaraderie as Vera's eyebrows rose in scorn. “And do you think that I don’t get scared? That I never feel that sick little twist of uncertainty in my stomach? Of course I do! I don’t always want to do the things that I do but I do them anyway, because they need to be done and nobody else is willing to. Sometimes, there’s no-one else but me brave enough to do them. Bravery is being scared but doing it anyway.”

“The least said about those things, the better,” Vera took a sip of the bright, astringent tea and scalded her tongue.

 

Once, when Joan had deigned to compare her favourably with herself, Vera had been undeniably flattered. It had meant that she was no longer the pathetic shrew-like woman that she hated, but someone of note, of worth. Now however, knowing what she did about Joan, the glamour had faded and it smarted to have her identify the correlations in their characters. “Look, you talk about me not knowing who I am, where I fit in… Well, maybe that’s true, but I’m OK with that because I think it stops me from being blinded to things that I may never have considered otherwise.”

“And equally, it stops you from accepting things that you’ve never encountered before …” Joan broke off and stared intently at her guest, “… you have to listen to what’s in here,” she drummed her chest with steepled fingers then made a curt slicing/shielding gesture with her damaged hand, “not what everyone else is telling you”. Drawing her hands into her lap she leaned forward, “it doesn’t matter if I what I’ve done was new, or scary – or even foolish – everything taught me a little more about myself. What I like, what I don’t,” she explained patiently, “what I can tolerate, the extent of my abilities… my boundaries. I like to think that that’s true for everybody but I see so many people blithely ignoring the empirical evidence of their lives, see them getting bogged down with meaningless minutiae when they could be so much more.”

 

Shaking her head, Vera groaned in muted frustration. “Oh, come on, Joan, just give it up! Can’t you accept that I’m not like you? That I don’t think like you? I don’t feel the same as things you and, thank god, I don’t react the same way as you do. Just because we both had shit childhoods don’t think that we have anything in common now!” Bracing her forearms on the table’s edge, she leaned forward, noting how a stony-faced Joan drew back a fraction, and declared: “I could never do the things that you’ve done. Never!” She stared defiantly into Joan's inky eyes and thought that she saw a trace of sadness there.

 

But you have, Vera, thought Joan sombrely, in your darkest times you’ve thought the unthinkable, but you’ve denied yourself for the sake of decency. She fought to keep the exasperation out of her voice, “oh Vera, Vera, when are you going to wake up to yourself? What’s it going to take for you to accept your true nature, hm? For you to embrace it instead of shying away, of denying it because it makes you feel like an outsider? I mean, why do you think it’s so bad for you to be different? It won’t kill you, you know. I’ve always found it preferable to live on the periphery than to exhaust myself by trying to worm my way into the cool crowd.” Even amongst her cohort of social acquaintances Joan knew that she stood apart – allied, but not wholly accepted.

 

“I don’t _want_ to embrace my ‘true nature’, Joan! Don’t you get it?” Vera slumped peevishly in her chair and stared out into the garden. The thick beam of sunlight had been whittled to a knife’s width and its golden warmth glanced off the curves of the wire woman as it slowly waned. “What’s wrong with following the rules or wanting to have friends?”

“Well, if that’s all you’re after, may I suggest you join a church?” observed Joan drily. “Look, Vera, we’re all entitled to feel comfortable in our own skin, but we shouldn’t have to twist ourselves into something we’re not just to gain acceptance, if we do it too often then we’re bound to end up more contorted than you could possibly imagine.”

 

“Yeah? Well, I know one thing for sure now, Joan, I know that I was never meant to end up with you. Gaining your acceptance would have twisted me beyond repair, and you know it.” She was sailing perilously close to the edge of breaking their agreement but she had to make Joan understand. “And you want to know something else? I like the confines of my ‘narrow’ morals. I like that they stop me from doing things that I know are wrong.”

“Oh? Such as…?” she perked up in interest, intrigued to discover Vera's darker temptations.

“Such as hurting someone that’s hurt me, and I mean purposefully hurt me. There’s been times when I’ve wanted to brain you with the nearest heavy object but I’ve resisted, because all that does is re-enforce negative behaviour.” She didn’t add that the thought of being arrested and charged were paralysing deterrents, or that she was terrified that she’d once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop…

“But deep down inside, you still want your revenge… your pound of flesh?”

That was pretty much what Joan had said when she’d been moved into General, for all of her educated theories she could be so bloody-minded at times. But, thought Vera bitterly, revenge only works when your victim accepts that they have lost (like she had) – and Joan would only ever do that in extremis, and perhaps not even then... Frustrated tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, “no, I don’t…”

 

“Aww, but you're crying!”

The insincerity of Joan's concern raised Vera's hackles and her fingers curled into bony fists. “Damn right I’m crying, Joan! You should try it sometime. Instead of making yourself feel better by inflicting distress, try a little emotional release instead. You can cry, can’t you?” she asked viciously, scrubbing a hand roughly across her cheeks before she remembered her make-up.

Joan scowled at her but said nothing. Vera, who’d read a couple of self-help books and thought that she knew it all, Vera, who thought the sun shone out of Westfall’s arse and mindlessly believed everything she was told; poor weak and fragile little mouse. She knew nothing! But she did look damned attractive with tears silvering her cheeks. Joan watched with a detached sensuality as Vera's tears dripped from her jaw and bled into the soft ruby fabric of her blouse, enjoying how they darkened the cloth to a deep crimson as the saltwater feathered out into the dense weave.

 

“Yes, I can cry,” came the clipped reply, “but that gets you nowhere. That anger, that violence that you eschew - you should use it to your advantage…”

“… it didn’t do you much good when you were raped, did it?” Vera cringed even as she was spewing out that awful word. She winced as Joan stiffened and her face became mask-like.

“We both know that it’s pointless trying to resist an officer – they can get at you whenever they like.” Joan levelled her gaze at Vera.

“It wasn’t Will though, was it, Joan? We both know that.” They stared at each other, the truth lying between them like a rotten fish. “Joan, I wish that you’d have let me punish the women who did that to you.”

 

She’d felt so helplessly ineffectual in the face of Joan's outright denial. Appalled at the extent of her injuries, sickened at the thought of anybody having to experience such brutality – and the fact that she hated the woman had done little to deaden her horror at Joan's total detachment. She’d felt equally ineffectual knowing that at least one member of her staff was a lying sack of shit whom, whether through negligence or corruption, had allowed this to happen – and then there had been Bridget: chirping in her ear about Joan having engineered the attack to further her plans; and she hadn’t known what to think. Had it been the pound of flesh that Joan had referred to in her office? She’d seen Joan fight, and the woman was terrifying – she would surely have defended herself, at least have sent some of her assailants to Medical? But then, just look at her arm – _that_ hadn’t been engineered, Vera was sure of it…

 

Joan's sculpted nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply and lifted her chin a fraction to stare judgementally at Vera, her dark eyes seemingly absorbing the soft morning light as they skated over Vera's earnest blue ones. Her next words were as cold and hard as diamonds, “I didn’t need your _pity_ , Vera.”

“Only you would think that my concern was pity, Joan!”

“Well, wasn’t it?” she challenged, “Maggie got the distincT impression that you were embarrassed by the incident.”

Vera's chair skittered over the waxed floorboards as she jumped to her feet, anger flaring hotly on her cheeks at the unfair accusation and hissed, “fuck Maggie! What does she know??” She stalked over to the patio door and hauled it open after some rapid jiggling of the lock.

 

Quite a lot actually, reflected Joan as she watched Vera struggle futilely with the screen door. Maggie had taken it upon herself to do a little digging on the subject of who had accessed Jianna’s file and it hadn’t taken her long to find out that Vera's details didn’t appear on the Archived file log-in – but Channing’s did, and on the night in question too. Nor had it been a stretch for her to establish that the internal security logs were vulnerable to amendment by just about anyone who could type with one finger. She had impressed on Joan the importance of allowing Vera the benefit of the doubt over the catastrophic wall papering event – it really wasn’t her style.

Recalling the shocked confusion on Vera's face, and her vehement denial of wrong doing (in this instance at least) Joan had been persuaded to reconsider her initial opinion. She was forced to agree that yes, she had made a snap judgement without a full and frank investigation because she’d been so eager to believe the first explanation offered to her. Yet, it was of little consequence in the grand scheme of things (even if she had treated Vera badly as a result) Joan had no doubt that with or without that accusation hanging over her head, Vera would still have reported her to the Board and would still have spilled all her mean suspicions to the Police – her dogged adherence to her pathetic morals meant that she just couldn’t help herself.

 

Vera's attempts to open the screen had tailed off and she stood, looking out at the brightening garden, hot forehead and fingertips resting against the cool mesh. Joan rose, crossed to the kitchen and retrieved a small blue key from its hook then padded over to Vera.

 

What _would_ it take for Vera to accept the animal inside her humanity? wondered Joan as she glanced down at her ex-deputy. After the initial event, they’d never talked about Rita’s death; how Vera had felt as she pumped the morphine into her mother, or how she had reconciled herself with her actions. Over the years, she had been responsible for a number of deaths (no doubt Vera would call them murders), but Joan had never truly experienced the rawness of supremacy, the sheer rapture of being wholly alive until she ended Smith’s life. To be sure, she felt saddened by the loss of a worthy adversary but she felt no remorse. It had confirmed that she was way beyond limits; she couldn’t be constrained by ‘civilisation’. She felt bad for Vera, because she would always be trapped.


	5. Chapter 5

“Not your usual scent, Vera,” she commented, inhaling deeply as she slipped the key into the lock and released the catch, “rather masculine isn’t it? I suppose you must be finding that big house of yours rather empty now that Mister Stewart has departed? Just you and the monsters under your bed…”

Vera paled in anger and shock at the realisation that Jake must have told Joan about her embarrassing hangover from childhood. What else had the bastard told her? She burned with an icy fire and itched to slap that sympathetic smile right off Joan's face but instead she shouldered her aside and yanked the screen along its runners. “There’s monsters everywhere, Joan,” she said between gritted teeth and graced her with a baleful glare as she stepped down onto the deck.

“You mean me, of course,” it was Vera's default term for her, Joan knew, and she smiled thinly – it was better than ‘Freak’, but not much. “But hiding under the bed is hardly my style – as I’m sure you know by now.”

“No, you're the type of monster that lurks in plain sight.” She turned and looked up into Joan's face, unhappy tears sliding to the outer corners of her blue eyes, “why did you do it, Joan?” Vera's voice cracked, “what made you want to damage my life like that? Hadn’t you ruined me enough?”

 

She’d taken a great, unadulterated pleasure from her impromptu destruction of Vera's domestic idyll. She’d initially planned a short series of anonymous notes detailing Stewart’s extra-curricular liaisons and had been looking forward to leisurely watching their happiness decompose over the coming weeks, but the opportunity for instant gratification had been too temptingly tempting. And she should be taking a similar pleasure from Vera's distress this morning, but oddly, that wasn’t the case; it seemed like a hollow victory but Joan couldn’t fathom why. Was it perhaps that now she’d got what she wanted it seemed inappropriately crass to torment Vera further, almost unsporting?

Her father would have told her that she was weak for feeling this way, he would have viewed Vera as an enemy - even now, when she had been reduced to grovelling for scraps. He would have told her that this is when your enemy is most dangerous - when they have nothing left to lose - and that smashing their will was imperative. Well, that may have been true of Smith, but Vera was still clinging to her self-respect, she still had plenty to lose, and Joan doubted that she would risk total annihilation by plotting some feeble uprising.

 

“Your rise and fall was all your own doing, Vera, but Stewart was using you,” Joan explained matter of factly. “Isn’t it better to know than to remain cuckolded?”

“He made me happy,” countered Vera weakly.

“No, you were grateful. We both know that’s not the same thing. I imagine you think I acted out of jealousy, but I want you to know that’s not the case - you deserve better in life than to waste it on a leech like Jake Stewart, and I can tell you now that infidelity was the least of his transgressions.”

The sour question ‘as bad as yours?’ flashed into Vera's thoughts as she tried to work out Joan's true motivation in the long seconds it took her to answer. “I suppose that I should thank you, Joan, but I’m not going to pretend that I think you did it for any other reason than to hurt me.”

 

“He’s a bent screw, Vera, he would have pulled you down,” Joan replied simply.

Her carefully neutral expression set Vera's teeth on edge, she knew in her bones that there more to it than plain old altruism – there always was with Joan. “So, I’m wondering why you waited until then to tell me, Joan. It’s because I turned you down, isn’t it?” she demanded and was vindicated as a micro-grimace flitted across the other woman’s face. “You did it because you couldn’t get what you wanted. Fucking hell, you’re just like a child at times! It’s pathetic, lashing out because your anger got the better of you!” One glance at the tightness around Joan's eyes and mouth told her that she was on the right track, and Vera pressed her advantage, “so much for controlling yourself in difficult situations, eh? You call me a hypocrite but just take a look at yourself!” she stepped back and swept her contemptuous gaze over Joan, relishing her minor victory, not really caring at this stage about the inevitable repercussions of her outburst. That soon changed as Joan shut her eyes and inhaled sharply, rolling her head as if loosening up in preparation for a fight, and Vera glanced nervously towards the door.

 

“And when else would I have had the opportunity, hmm?” asked Joan as she felt the mask of civility settle back into place, “let’s be realistic here – it’s not as if we’re friends, I could hardly have told you over a cup of tea in your office and offered you my shoulder to cry on, could I? And if I’d told you in his absence then you’d have just accused me of lying, of trying to manipulate you, and then you’d have gone home and allowed him to weasel his way out of it with his lies and false promises. I had to be cruel to be kind. I, I did it for the best… don’t you see?” she lied.

“For the greater good,” muttered Vera sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

 

Stalking to the edge of the lawn, Vera hugged herself against the chill. She’d been a fool to think that Joan's olive branch could bear the weight of their history. “I don’t know if I can do this, Joan. It already feels like we’re slipping backwards,” unspilled tears blurred her vision and she angrily blinked them away.

Joining her, Joan thrust her hands into her pockets and took a deep, appreciative breath of early morning air. It was true, she could feel it too. This veneer of courtesy was more like a scar, the new tissue thin and fragile and still sore - yet a much more down to earth image suddenly sprang to mind of the netting they stretched over full skips, holding everything in place but still letting the awkward trash poke through. At the moment they were ostensibly equals – trying to play nice because of their truce (although technically not bound by its terms), but once back at Wentworth they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with niceties, just work. “Perhaps this setting is too informal,” she offered, glancing down at the hunched figure beside her. “I suspect that we’ll find it simpler once we’re back in a working environment.”

“I’ve put in for a transfer.” Vera announced woodenly without looking up. 

“Ah, I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”

 

Vera's eyebrows rocketed upwards in shock and surprise. “You, you know?” she spluttered, blinking rapidly as she faced Joan. Then the realisation dawned on her. “Ohh, and I suppose that you knew the other day too,” her eyes narrowed, “that’s why you came ‘round offering a truce isn’t it – to keep me out of your way until I was gone? Well, well done, you fooled me again,” she spat, “congratulations!” Of course, there had to have been an ulterior motive for Joan's change of heart…

“That’s not quite true.” Joan became solemn, “but did you think that running away will solve anything? Is that really the message that you want to be sending, Vera? That when things get a little rough you leave? I mean, Vera, if that’s the case then you may as well resign.” 

Vera's lip twitched with the start of a snarl as Joan raised a querying eyebrow. “It’s called ‘making a fresh start’,” she muttered in annoyance and fixed her gaze on the Hare-woman.

 

“So, you chose to jump rather than waiting for the push, yes? Hoping that you might rebuild your career, hm? It won’t be easy, Vera,” she counselled, “a lot of people took an interest in your machinations – people who happen to think highly of me.” She ignored Vera’s sarcastic laugh. “And I wouldn’t count on getting the current vacancy either, Mister StewarT decided that he might benefit from a change of scenery and put his name down the moment the posting came out.” She feigned a look of worried concern as Vera's mouth fell open, “what, he didn’t tell you?” Joan tutted in surprised distaste, “how duplicitous of him. But given that his disciplinary record is less, ah, _muddied_ than yours, I’m sure they’ll snap him right up… it’s better in the long-run for all concerned, don’t you think?”

It was infinitely better now that he wasn’t allied to Vera, but she didn’t want that man in her prison any longer than necessary. He was a coward, a sneak, a detriment to its smooth running; and he had seen her at her worst, at her most desperate. He was a witness to her failed attempts to connect with Shayne, to the Novak incident. He had killed Nils… and although he had been a useful tool in her quest for survival, the sight of him dredged up disquieting emotions that she’d rather not address. “…Maybe something else will come along soon, eh? Who knows, you may feel differently by then?”

 

Vera's wary expression had slackened in surprise and now her stomach lurched as she realised that Joan had just pulled the rug out from under her plans. A fresh wave of loathing at how her life was still not her own (and probably never would be) bubbled and seethed in her chest, making it hard to breathe. This sudden knowledge pushed all of her hopes for the future into the dwindling distance and left her teetering in the eye of a disturbing vortex of helplessness; if she shut her eyes she knew that she would see the swirling walls of her prison whipping past her, slick and grey, seething and writhing like snakes in a sack; she could feel the grinding pressure they generated seeping into her bones, making them ache and creak as she tried to resist the urge to crumble. She longed for a shining blade with which to force back the walls, to pierce the unbroken expanse of misery, anything to get her out of here. 

 

With a deep breath, Vera lifted her chin in defiance of everything, “I doubt that very much, Joan,” she muttered tightly.

“Hm, well, you never know...” Joan turned on her heel and headed into the house.

“You know, it might be you that has the change of heart,” Vera called after her.

Joan paused in the doorway. “Your meaning?” she asked coldly without turning around.

“I mean that I don’t think you’ll find settling back into the Governor’s chair as easy as you think – you really think that anybody’s going respect you after what they saw of you? You were a prisoner, you were one of them.”

 

Annoyingly, Vera was right and Joan scowled unseen. She was perfectly aware of the challenge she had ahead of her. She would be relying on the respect for her rank alone, the authority that came with her beloved golden crowns. She knew that, more than ever before, she would be the subject of gossip and furtive whisperings, judgemental looks and veiled insubordination. But she knew her prison right down to its sweating foundations. She knew all the lurks, the loopholes, the pressure points. She’d experienced first-hand what years of working as a corrections officer had never truly taught her – how those broken women carved out an existence as they waited out their time, how their loyalties were won, coerced, bought and broken. And she would be damned if she would be forced out of her chair a second time.

“I was never ‘one of them’,” she replied haughtily.

 

All the months of anger and resentment that Vera had been clamping down on suddenly reached critical mass and she burned with a consuming fiery hatred. Balls to their agreement! She knew that Joan was guilty of every accusation ever levelled at her. She also knew that Joan was still the dangerous psychopath of old - she hadn’t changed, she never would.

The lies that she was expected to swallow, the lie that she was expected to live - they weren’t worth the pain they’d cost her to endure. If she didn’t do this now then it would eat away at her until there was nothing left of the woman she knew she could be. “Oh my fucking god, Joan! Could you delude yourself any more?” she shouted in frustration. “You deserved to be there more than anyone! The things you’ve done… You need to be kept away from decent people!”

 

Stunned by this unexpected outburst, Joan spun around and stared open mouthed before she managed to regain her composure. She raked Vera with a withering look, and in a voice that could etch steel she asked, “and I suppose that you class yourself as ‘decent’, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” she snapped aggressively, glaring with open malevolence at her.

Joan cocked her head to one side and her glittering eyes stroked every centimetre of Vera's slim frame. “But you can’t keep away from me, Vera,” she goaded with a raised eyebrow and sly smile. “I call that _in_ decent.”

“Fuck you, Joan! You're the one who invited me in, you're the one that showed up at my house. You're the one that’s stopping me from leaving Wentworth.” Joan gave a dismissive ‘pffft’ and it was all Vera needed to make up her mind. Suddenly, that longed-for blade was within her grasp and she seized it with both hands. “I’ve had it up to here with your shit and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you interfere in my life any longer. You can shove your truce up your arse - I quit!” she yelled and stormed into the house, knocking Joan aside without sparing her another glance as she headed for the front door, her heels ringing loudly on the wooden floor with every furious step.

 

 _This isn’t how it was meant to go!_ came the panicky thought. “You're really going to throw away your whole career?” demanded Joan incredulously as she followed in Vera's wake.

Adrenaline boomed through her as she rounded on Joan, “I loved that job but you’ve robbed every ounce of joy from it. If you’ve taught me anything then it’s to look out for number one – so that’s what I’m doing.” It all seemed so clear now, she couldn’t understand what she’d been so scared of.

Joan's face was a picture of incomprehension. Frantically, she tried to find something to make Vera stay but nothing would come. She had nothing to offer and she knew it, but it didn’t stop her from trying. “You can’t just quit, Vera. I mea…”

“…no?” she hissed, “just watch me!” Grabbing her coat, she yanked open the door and flounced out without a backwards glance.

 

She was free! Free of Wentworth and all the shit that went with it. It didn’t matter what the cost, she would never have to see or think about Joan fucking Ferguson ever again. So great was the relief that cascaded through her exhausted senses that, by the time she managed to get the key in the ignition, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry - so she did both.

 

Tired but much happier, Vera knuckled hot tears from her eyes and headed for home.  She was only half-listening to the radio as she pulled onto the freeway but the opening lines of the old rock song hooked her attention - ‘Am I ever gonna see your face again?’ sang Doc Neeson. “No way! Get fucked! Fuck off!” she responded like a true-blue Aussie should, and smiled to herself. This one’s for you, Joan, she thought and dialled up the volume. ‘Am I ever gonna see your face again?’ Doc asked again. “No way!” shouted Vera, “Get fucked! Fuck off!” She grinned and put her foot down – she had a letter to write.

 

*****

 

Joan’s handsome face transformed into an ugly mask of wrath as white-hot fury crawled through her. Its vicious barbs made her twitch and tic as it stoked her hatred for Vera. Damn her! Damn her! _Damn her!_ The stupid, pathetic bitch! Who did she think she was? she raged. How _dare_ she resign! How dare she thwart her plans like that? White knuckled, she gripped the end of the counter, her breath coming harsh and loud between bared teeth as she rocked back and forth on locked arms; if she’d had the strength then she’d have wrenched it free and smashed it to pieces on the floor, but the heavy marble remained immobile and instead, she grabbed the rubbish sack and hurled it (and its unwanted contents) after Vera.

It landed with such force that a shoe skittered through the open front door, across the polished concrete of the vestibule and came to rest on her neighbour’s doormat. With a grimace, she retrieved it, snatched up the bag as she slammed the door, and carried everything back into the kitchen where she tipped it out onto the counter once more, laying it all out on the pristine surface like a body on a slab.

 

You want to hope that never see you again, Vera Bennett she vowed and selected a carving knife from the drawer. Gripping the blue dress by its leather collar she plunged the bright steel into the bodice. The silk rent with a satisfying ‘shhrrrr’ and she hacked at the rag until there was nothing left for the blade to bite. The gloves offered more resistance, yet the soft leather barely dented the force of her anger and she shredded them in seconds, leaving them destroyed beyond recognition, their crimson innards spilling across the tattered hide like bloody rivulets.

Dropping the knife, she turned her attention to the tiny shoes and wrenched at the heel of one but it resisted her strong hands and refused to budge, instead, fighting back and slicing her palm with its sharp metal tip, making her dash it to the floor and kick it away in childish frustration. But the sharp pain brought her somewhat to her senses and her pulse began to beat less loudly in her ears as she sucked at smarting wound and surveyed the remains of Vera's ghost.

 

“Joan.” Blood drained from her flushed face as the heavily accented voice filled her ears. “Joan,” admonished her father gently, “stop this now. You’ve won. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your victory.” Sharply, she shook her head to dispel the hallucination then let out a great whooshing sigh as the truth of his words percolated through her anger.  He was right, Vera had fled like the coward she was, yet she felt cheated –  she was to be denied the chance to string out the erosion of Vera’s self-confidence until the bitter end, yet by the same token, she would be spared the irritation of having to see the traitorous shrew ever again.

 

Grimly, she gathered up the fragments of silk and leather and bundled them all back into the bag then slung it in the garage; she had an idea that Vera would be receiving a little gift presently…


	6. Chapter 6

Joan climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Leaning on the doorframe, she massaged her hand as Maggie's tousled head emerged from the cloud of fluffy quilt and she smiled sleepily at her.

“Was that Vera?”

“Mmm,” she nodded.

“What did she want at the crack of dawn?”

“Not quite what she thought she did,” came the cryptic reply. “She returned the outfit I bought her for the conference,” Joan sneered, “she said that she thought I could ‘ _repurpose_ it.”

“Oh?”

Joan snorted derisively as she headed toward the en-suite, “I caught her running away after she’d dumped it on the doorstep, so I invited her in for breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” asked Maggie in surprise. Pushing herself up on the pillows she stared quizzically at Joan's sour face, “what on earth for? What’s happened, Joan?” She was certainly making a meal of this break-up, she thought privately, it was as if she didn’t want to let Vera go – even though she knew that Joan would never truly admit it.

Joan pulled her heavy locks into a pony tail, “I thought I’d see if she’d go for the truce once she’d had time to calm down.”

“And…?”

“And she did…initially.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘initially’?”

Joan's eyes slid away from Maggie’s and she suddenly found the wardrobe door extremely interesting. “Yes, well,” she muttered irritably, “we had an exchange of words and she resigned.”

“Resigned? Well, well, I didn’t think she had it in her – just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“She as good as accused me of keeping her around just for something to torment.”

“And of course, you’d _never_ do anything like that, would you Joan?”

She curled her lip at Maggie's sarcasm, “and what, exactly, do you mean by that, may I ask?”

“Oh, come on Joan, don’t give me that,” she paused to enjoy the spectacle of Joan removing her robe, “you're like a cat playing with its prey. You've punished her enough for not being able to measure up so why not just let her be? She’d have been gone soon enough anyway, so what’s the difference?” One look at Joan's sulky pout told her all she needed to know. “You're just annoyed that she beat you to the punch, aren’t you?”

“Well, wouldn’t you be? she demanded petulantly.

“I suppose I might, but you always knew that there was an outside chance that she’d throw it all in.” Joan pulled a face. “Oh, come on, love,” cajoled Maggie, “it’s hardly the end of the world. Let Vera have her hollow victory – after all, it’s all she’s got to keep her warm at nights now, isn’t it, eh? Unlike you…”

Joan huffed in reluctant acceptance and her earlier fury ebbed away. “Yeah, I know, but still... It’s annoying.”

Maggie’s hazel eyes beckoned Joan with a liquid glint and she twitched the corner of the quilt aside. “Yes, I know, but you're a big girl and I’m sure you’ll cope. Now shut up and come here.” Her own eyes shone in response to Maggie's lascivious twinkle, and slowly she loosened the pyjama cord at her waist. All it ever took was a certain look from her and Joan would feel herself getting wet in seconds...

 

She welcomed her special girl into her arms with a happy sigh. Fitting herself around her lover, the built-up tension flowed from Joan shoulders and her whole body became heavy with drowsy warmth. Maggie inhaled the faint scent of coffee and fresh morning air that rose from Joan's lustrous hair and lovingly trailed her fingertips along her arm, tracing the sprays of freckles that their afternoons in the sun had encouraged, “it’ll all work out, trust me.”

Joan stiffened against her. “Don’t patronise me, please.”

“Hey, you know I’m not love,” Maggie soothed, “you tried to make the best out of a bad situation. It’s not your fault Vera can’t listen to reason.” She placed a kiss on Joan's forehead and felt her start to relax once more. “Best all round if she goes, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” agreed Joan, “and when Mister Stewart also departs, the money I save on their salaries can be used to recruit three probationers.”

“That’s the spirit! Every cloud and all that.”

 

It had been five weeks since she’d arrived in Melbourne and found Joan failing to cope. It had been wholly heart breaking to see how adrift she was; she seemed to have had all of her vitality knocked out of her - oh yes, she may have talked a good fight but Maggie knew that beneath that mask lay so much suppressed pain and indignity that Joan had had no choice but to retreat into the compartmentalised safety of denial and inertia.

Their first few weeks together had been difficult to endure. Even though Joan had desperately needed her, there’d been no guarantee that she would accept her loving support. Joan had wanted her whilst, at the same time, pushing her away: a contrariness that spoke of her conflicted soul; but Maggie had persevered and had encouraged the woman that she knew and loved to return to her bit by bit, and she had no intention of leaving Joan when she returned to Wentworth. These coming weeks would take their toll on her, there was no doubt of that, and she intended to make sure that she was there to ease the anxiety and frustrations that would inevitably surface as Joan endeavoured to restore her authority in a prison that had revelled in her fall. In fact, she intended to be around for much longer than that; a soft smile played on her lips as she thought of the smart little rental place that she’d put an offer in for.

 

Rolling Joan onto her back, Maggie sank her fingers into the base of her pony tail and kissed her deeply. Joan’s breast filled her hand and she squeezed until breath hitched in her lover’s throat. With a little persuasion, Joan's camisole slipped up her long torso, exposing the soft, ivory pillows of her naked breasts to Maggie's lascivious gaze; she lowered her lips to a stiff, pink nipple and sucked it deep into her mouth, chewing on it whilst her fingers expertly pinched the other until Joan was squirming and mewling in pleasure. Slipping from the swollen tip, her gnarled fingers savoured their meandering journey over Joan's ribs, her waist, her soft, quivering belly, easing themselves beneath the waist of her pyjamas as they sought out the silken valley between her thighs; and her lips found Joan's once more, tracing the shape of her wide, luscious mouth as her fingertips traced folds of hot, slick flesh.

 

A wanton fire filled Joan, deep, golden waves of desire radiating through her core as an exquisite heaviness tugged her down into a tide of sensation that drew her out of herself then sent her consciousness crashing back into her undulating body. Maggie knew just how to touch her, she always had.

They fit together so perfectly. Their years together had made their love an instinctual thing, but they hadn’t dulled the excitement or passion that they generated in each other. Their souls had melted together for eternity in the crucible of their love, creating something rarer and denser than osmium and more durable than granite. Their love was as intricately layered and folded as the blade of a sword, it had been tempered in the waters of adversity, heated then cooled and heated again until it could flex under duress and its edge was keener than a shard of obsidian. Their love would continue forever, even in death she knew that they would be reunited as two handfuls of stardust, swirling together for all infinity.

 

She let forth a deep groan as Maggie pulled at her hair, exposing her pale throat to her teeth, and eased three fingers inside her. Her whimpers reverberated against Maggie's lips as she dragged her mouth the length of Joan's throat, nipping and sucking whilst her hand worked rhythmically, long fingers combing Joan's inner walls. Fffuuck!! It felt incredible!

The sharp burn as Maggie added a fourth quickly gave way to a deliciously needy ache that throbbed in time with her clamouring pulse and she shivered as she pushed her pyjamas from her hips and slipped a hand to her spread lips, crying out as she teased fingertips over her sticky, swollen clit. “Fuck me, Maggie,” she urged, “fuck me hard…!! Ohhhh…” her cries were muffled as Maggie kissed her again, hard and deep.

 

Sobs of pure pleasure leaked from her throat, and her tingling fingers raked Maggie's back before they bunched into a fist around her shirt as she writhed, feet slipping on the thick bedsheet, in her efforts to meet Maggie's forceful thrusts. “I want more,” she demanded hoarsely, and growled as her sodden cunt was stretched and pummelled and rockets went off in her skull.

 

Maggie knew exactly what Joan needed and tucked her thumb into her palm. “Come on, Zhannochka, take it for me,” she coaxed huskily lifting her face from her breast to gaze at Joan's flushed beauty, and she twisted her hand against slippery, pliant muscle, coating it in another flood of silken juices as her special girl rocked into her. Releasing Joan’s hair, she gripped the back of her neck and pulled her forwards into a kiss, tonguefucking her as her hand slid inside, swallowing Joan's faltering gasp as she was finally filled.

Gently, she rippled her fingers against the clutching walls of Joan's vagina, massaging her cervix with her knuckles as her hand slowly worked deeper, adoring how she trembled and fluttered under her touch. Her own need pulsed slickly between her thighs as Joan's excitement grew, her abraded flesh throbbed and burned with searing intensity as the sight and feel and smell of the goddess beneath her ramped up her desire.

 

Joan's eyes rolled back beneath fluttering lids and darkness enveloped her as she rode the fantastically intense rush. “Harder…!” she pleaded and pressed her forgotten fingertips to her clit, holding them immobile whilst the hard nub slid beneath as her sexual flesh was exquisitely pummelled. Buzzing light filled her belly as the delectable pressure intensified and it spread through her like a wildfire, obliterating everything but the astounding connection to her lover. She couldn’t tell where she ended and Maggie began, and she was losing control, she could feel it slipping away as her senses were launched into overdrive and she gave herself over to the demands of her body.

 

Jeeeeesusss! Each shallow, rasping indrawn breath was expelled in a whimpering moan, some muffled by the plump pillows as her head thrashed from side to side, most of them flung towards the high, sun splashed ceiling with each nerve shattering twist of Maggie's hand. Her pelvic bone rubbed against the crook of her inner wrist as she was pulled forward for another kiss and Joan thought that she was going to pass out in sheer pleasure. “Oh, god, Maggie,” she managed to croak before she collapsed back into the mattress and raised her hips, rubbing at her clit with bruising force as she held Maggie's burning gaze with slitted eyes.

 

“Fucking hell, just look at you, girl,” derided Maggie, “wrapped around my hand, fucking me for all you're worth like the dirty slut you are.” Joan's cunt constricted and Maggie grinned in lustful satisfaction. “You just can’t get enough, can you, eh?” she asked scornfully and rapidly shook her fist within its tight, fleshy prison, “what’s the matter, didn’t you get enough last night?” Joan emitted a low, sobbing moan as all strength left her legs and she lay writhing on the rumpled sheet, totally at the mercy of her lover. “Close, aren’t you, my little Zhannochka? Yeah, I can feel it, just listen to that…” Maggie withdrew her hand a little so that her knuckles caught on the taut muscles of Joan's opening and fucked her quickly. The gathered juices slurped loudly, “what an obscenely dirty sound you make,” she crooned. “If only people knew what a filthy bitch you really are they’d all want a bit, wouldn’t they, eh? But they can’t have you because you're mine. You're my special girl, my very own perverted little whore, and I’m never gonna let you go. Ever!” Without warning she gripped a nipple between thumb and forefinger and gave it a vicious twist, winding it around her fingertip as Joan gasped wordlessly and stiffened.

 

Joan floated free of herself as her approaching climax scoured her senses. She instinctively clung to Maggie, grinding her forehead into the hollow of her shoulder as the sensations in her cunt went into overdrive and she was wracked by the long, delirious convulsions of her orgasm. There was a strange rush of heat as Maggie slipped her hand from her overworked cunt and Joan shuddered again, her hips bucking with residual lust, trapping Maggie's fingers between her clenched and trembling thighs as the world slowly swam back into focus.

 

They lay tangled together, Maggie's sticky fingers caressing the damp skin between Joan's shoulder blades as the birds sang outside. “I love you so much, Ritochka,” Joan murmured and lifted her face to her lover’s, “you're my everything. You know that, right?”

“Right back at’cha, my darling. For ever and ever.” Maggie kissed her tenderly, melting into the slippery softness of Joan's mouth. As her tongue skated along Joan's lower lip heat flared once more between her thighs and she knew that she was lost.

Joan reached down and cupped her damp sex through her pyjama bottoms. She winced and Joan relaxed her fingers, “still sore?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, but in a good way,” replied Maggie with a wink.

Joan slipped her hand inside the fly opening and located the deep, silken pool of excitement between Maggie's thick, swollen lips. “Too sore for this?” she asked seductively and ran a featherlight fingertip up to the peak of her clit.

Maggie's face creased in a saucy grin and she pulled Joan on top of her. “Just be gentle with me,” she warned with a throaty chuckle. 


End file.
